Sorrow, Tears and Blood!


Normal day in the African sun.

The lions roar. The antelopes run.

Mothers take care of their young ones.

Fathers afield raising good yields.

Sons and daughters matching their feet.

Then like rain uncalled for and scorching heat,

A tramp, foot stamp and rush of feet.

The guns, they roared in every street

Loud was their crude, uproarious din.

Commanding heart and life and limb.

Like straw tossed out, our fallen kin

Lay strewn between the barns and kiln.

Between the fields and home’s wide grin.

The rat tat tat ended our grins.

Into the hills, we fled. we hid.

Pushed out, pursued and pierced with pains

Lost homes, loved ones we’ll never see.

Sorrows as keen as knife on skin.

Tears like rivers. Hurts so deep.

Blood bringing the earth to tears.

A life without its true moorings. -Seun


Lay in my field while I yield the substance that makes the tree wither.

Can the sins of the land be forgiven?

Innocent souls caged behind rolls of irons sold in form of money gold.

While the bad good men are trolling with mere men as their shield. Hiding their sins in Holy constitution, giving the mass a communication yet the feedback received are lies wrapped up in manifestos.

Fela is right! Sorrow, tears and blood is what is left. The just are not given justice. The supreme reign higher than the court and higher than the law. We were taught in classrooms that no one is above the law. But outside the room we observe and realize the rich interprets the law to suit their suit, while the poor follow the rules blindly, hoping for God to take control.

Sincerely, if we all had fingers in the green white green house, we’d certainly satisfy our desires before remembering the land that suffers. So I won’t judge, neither would I bear a grudge.

The jokes laid upon the souls in the prison system. Treated with fierce ease. Fierceness is unease. Torture wears black and white in cells. Feet are forced to admit to crime scenes they never trod.

The pen is mightier than the sword. The sword can kill but the pen buries the pill and pages the bills. The only way to speak out, is to write out what is right.

The pen can put an end to sorrow if we ink joys of tomorrow.

The pen can riddle tears but the sword will leave us in fears. I choose the pen. Fortunately, the pen chose me first. – Rachel Charles


In the heat of crossfire trapped.

Derobed of grace and honour

Ravaged with pain and brute lust

Darkness you wished descended

With a blanket concealing your shame

Your nakedness brought to the glare

But the sun stood still above

Indifferent. Watching the dark deeds of men,

Their boots of savagery and steel barrels of death

Making gods out of earthly scums

Pronouncing life and deaths

As though Divine and Ordained.

Caught between the heat of animosities

Angel fallen and trampled to the dirt,

Pinioned with pain and sorrow

Ceaseless tears cascading from eyes sore

Seeing her Lord taken and cut short in his prime

The fruit of her womb scattered in angry wind

Abode ablaze and memories of it only in smoke.

The past was cruel and harsh

The present gives an embrace yet suffocating

The future yet decided a temper to adopt.

Who shall hear her cries?

Who shall avenge her plight?

Who shall bring up her case before the men of light?

Who shall clean up her wounds and heal her scars?

Who shall give her back her wings

And restore her to glory and honour?

Who shall make null

The memories of the hurtful past?




The regular trademark of war. Pain that slit tongues. Leaves that fall off the hearts of broken trees irked by the flower of loss.

Syringe that pierces deeper than betrayal. A moment when pride drowns in the murky muddy waters of torture, the kind that leaves pain painless.


A body wash. Each drop burns a memory. Each drop, a sheet written of past, present, and future reincarnations. Each drop, a page of untold stories, unwritten passages, revisited streets of broken lamps and happy grief. Each drop, a message sent. Each drop, emotion rent. Each drop, a repaired dent.


The color of life. The water of death in the end. On this water sails such stories… Leon


Tears can’t undo what has been done,

But it’s a sum of truth,  deceitful lips can’t speak.

Sorrow,  one less laughter and it’s cloudy.

Blood. Tastes like victory lost before the battle started.  Hypermind


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One comment

  • Umar

    December 23, 2016 at 7:03 am

    They caused sorrow, tears and blood
    In the hope that they built us roads and houses made of mud
    The potter is clear about one thing – he is a maker
    The soldier is clear about two things – he is a team player and a kill


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